Quotes About Meaning

The real me lives in words, not in what words mean.

Just once I knew what life was for.

Am I to bless the lost you, sitting here with my clumsy soul?

My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees. I confess I am only broken by the sources of things; as if words were counted like dead bees in the attic, unbuckled from their yellow eyes and their dry wings. I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.

Today is the day they shipped home our summer in two crates and tonight is All Hallows Eve and today you tell me the oak leaves outside your office window will outlast the New England winter. But then, love is where our summer was.

I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said … but did not.

Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.

Each word bears its weight, so you have to read my poems quite slowly.

I'm not really quiet or shy. Ask any of my friends! But I always ground my poetry in life itself. Poetry is an art of language, though, so I am always aware of every word's meaning, or multiple meanings.

They said words they did not mean, and their conversations seemed to follow all kinds of rules—rules that no one has ever explained to Oscar.

Charlotte sighed inwardly. She knew her mother was serious when she started referring to shellfish. What did that mean, anyway? What's so great about the world being your oyster? Does that mean it's really hard to open, and when you do, you have something slimy and gross on the inside?

I don't want to get to the end of my life and find that I just lived the length of it. I want to live the width of it as well.

Want als je geen toekomst meer hebt, wat blijft er anders over dan dromen van het verleden.

Pasijuntat tikras, kad paslapties raktas guli kur nors skalbykl?je arba tarp knygos lap?: daugiau nebeieškokit. Dažnai koduotos žinut?s slepiasi ne skalbykl?se, o širdyse. Tetr?ksta tik kodo, kad gal?tume iššifruoti.

What were the present and future to him, he who did not fear the sandstorm? Did he know what fortune and misfortune mean, and what our tortured hearts called hope?

Abram and Antonia Chayes even redefined sovereignty itself to mean not the right to be left alone but the right to participate in international organizations and networks.

Déjà le souvenir de ce que j'ai écrit s'efface. Je ne sais pas ce qu'est ce texte. Même ce que je poursuivais en écrivant le livre s'est dissous. J'ai retrouvé dans mes papiers une sorte de note d'intention : Explorer le gouffre entre l'effarante réalité de ce qui arrive, au moment où ça arrive et l'étrange irréalité que revêt, des années après, ce qui est arrivé.

Nunca he escrito para que sea bonito o para hacer una frase bella. Lo que yo escojo es la frase justa

Más que todo, ahora querría captar la luz que baña rostros ya invisibles, manteles cargados de comida desvanecida, esa luz que estaba ya ahí en los relatos de los domingos de infancia y que no ha dejado de posarse sobre las cosas vividas inmediatamente, una luz anterior. Salvar algo del tiempo en el que ya no estaremos nunca más

Je ne suis pas culturelle, il n'y a qu'une chose qui compte pour moi, saisir la vie, le temps, comprendre et jouir.

Il s'agissait d'user le temps, de tromper l'ennui par toutes sortes d'activités sans réelle importance, dont la lecture.

Pero para qué escribir si no es para desenterrar cosas, hasta una sola, irreductible a explicaciones de toda suerte, psicológicas, sociológicas, algo que no sea el resultado de una idea preconcebida ni de una demostración, sino del relato, algo que salga de los repliegues escalonados del relato y que pueda ayudar a entender —a soportar— lo que sucede y lo que se hace.

Est-ce une vie ? Oui, sans doute, cela vaut mieux que le vide.

All'inizio ho creduto che avrei scritto in fretta. In realtà passo molto tempo a interrogarmi sull'ordine delle cose da dire, la scelta e la disposizione delle parole, come se esistesse un ordine ideale, l'unico capace di restituire una verità su mia madre – ma non so in cosa consista –, e nel momento in cui scrivo non conta nient'altro per me che la scoperta di quell'ordine.